


Uncommonly Kind

by JackHawksmoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: crazy!cas H/C
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:17:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackHawksmoor/pseuds/JackHawksmoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Cas are cursed and can't be separated. Since lately Cas is unstable at the best of times, Sam has his hands full.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncommonly Kind

Dean was cursing at the witch when Sam woke up. Something about her hygiene. Sam realized a second later that he was not actually tied up but rather seemed to be pinned to the floor by some kind of force. He winced, wishing for the ten-millionth time that Dean would learn to shut his mouth when they were in bad situations.

 

“You know,” the witch said, and she really sounded pissed now, “I would love to use your body parts for components.”

 

“Yeah?” Dean said roughly, “Well why don't you?”

 

Sam actually tried to twist his head up against whatever was pushing it down just so that he could glare at his brother.

 

“Oh, the night is young,” she said sweetly. “But I'm more interested in Sam here.”

 

Something gut-twisting happened and Sam was suddenly on his feet. She was blonde, but it was an expensive dye job. The hygiene comment had probably really stung. She smiled at him sweetly.

 

“Your brother's one-hundred percent human, but you, Sam...” she said, and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, trailing off.

 

Sam tensed. “Yeah. I know. I'm an abomination. It's kind of old news.”

 

He managed, though some minor effort, not to tell her to screw herself. He glanced briefly over at Dean, who looked at least as pissed as he felt, and raised his eyebrows slightly.

 

_See? Self control._

 

Dean scowled at him.

 

“Oh no, it's not that. It's much better,” the witch laughed. She stared at him for a second, then did a kind of funny wavy thing around his head with her hands. “You positively _reek_ of angel.”

 

Sam went very still. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean stiffen.

 

“What do you mean?” Sam demanded.

 

She snickered to herself, turning away from him to pull a bag out from under the counter and dump the contents out on her kitchen island. Sam thought, rather unkindly, that it was a really ugly granite.

 

“You're going to love this,” she said slyly, lifting her hand in a casual gesture as if to tell them not to go anywhere. She ducked out of the room.

 

“Can you move?” Sam asked Dean urgently, as soon as she was out of earshot.

 

“Not much,” Dean said. “Try and keep her occupied.”

 

Sam scoffed, rolling his shoulders. It was as much as he could manage. “Yeah. Great.”

 

Dean gave him a highly offended look. “I'll think of some-” his eyes darted to the hallway, and he adopted a ridiculously innocent expression.

 

Sam looked that way, saw the witch headed in with a covered birdcage, and pressed his lips together. He starting to get a sinking feeling that he knew where this was going. He hoped it was just a bird in there.

 

Sam glanced at his brother, who didn't look like he was about to come up with anything brilliant, and cleared his throat politely. The witch glanced up from where she was arranging her gross pile of spell components. Sam thought he saw a finger in there.

 

It looked like Sam had to play the good brother. Again.

 

“Um, what do you mean, angel?” Sam tried to look approachable and attractive. He smiled a little.

 

The witch gave him a pitying look. “I mean, you're my ticket to a whole new kind of power. It's wound all around you. I've just got to catch hold of it and pull. You've got angel all over you, Sam. I can see it, like strings of lighting.” She smiled. “So I'm going to use you. To call down the lighting. I'm going to catch it in a bottle and take it home with me.”

 

Sam gaped at her for a second, felt the incredulous smile curling his lips up. “Seriously?” he managed.

 

Dean just laughed at her. “Lady, trust us. Even if- and that's a big if-it actually worked? That is something I would love to see you do. I've seen angels. You would fry yourself like bacon.”

 

She set a little cluster of bones down on the counter with a thunk, glowering. “Oh, you're going to see it, Dean. You're going to see what nobody's ever seen before. I'm going to be more powerful than anyone has ever been, and you pair of morons are going to be the first to see it.”

 

Dean shifted in place rather awkwardly and muttered, “You're a...pair of morons.”

 

The witch actually stopped to stare at him and shake her head, as if she'd stumbled over something pitiable. Dean scowled at her.

 

Sam ignored them both. He was starting to get a little uncomfortable. He waited until she turned back to her gross little soup and gave Dean a questioning look, jerking his head at her. Dean had spent more time with angels than he had. Maybe he had heard something about this kind of thing happening before...

 

Dean shrugged. He threw a look at the witch like she'd started dancing around in a chicken costume or something.

 

Sam sighed, frowning to himself. The witch started to chant, and uncovered the birdcage. There was a crow inside. She pulled it out, and it squawked indignantly.

 

After only a moment of listening, Sam's heart clenched. “Dean...” he said, warning.

 

“Is that Enochian?” Dean asked him, at almost the same moment.

 

Sam swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he breathed. He felt sort of sick all of a sudden. And it wasn't because the bird had stopped making noise. The stuff she was saying, there was something for binding in there...then something Sam missed...a place name...

 

There was only one angel she could be calling, but she couldn't possibly know his name, and Sam was almost sure Castiel couldn't be summoned without his name.

 

Then he felt it. All of a sudden he could move, but he didn't want to.

 

He went down on his knees, because there was someone pressing hot brands into his skin, and that hadn't happened in a long time-

 

Sam looked down, aware that Dean was yelling for him, and saw strange red glowing lines tracing spider-webs across his skin. The light deepened, brightened as he watched, the pain twisting in, pulling at...something...

 

He curled in, groaning, buckling, always a new ten...

 

The windows shattered.

 

Glass-

 

He was on the floor. Sam looked up. There was glass on the floor, and in his hair.

 

Dean-

 

Dean was looking up, he was looking over at...

 

Castiel was in the corner. On the floor. He wasn't moving.

 

Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, his mouth open wide in shock. The witch grabbed his arm.

 

God, they were getting sloppy.

 

It was like she hooked her fingers into something under his skin. His eyes were on fire...everything looked strange....But he didn't have to look to see those weird red lines; He could feel them. They burned in, red to orange to white, and while he flopped back on the floor, he could see Cas across the room... _and he was the same_. That glowy stuff was all over him. It went all the way in to Cas' eyes. Maybe that was why Sam couldn't see anything right, it was like something was bending the light...Sam would have tried to make sense of it if he could think straight.

 

It was like she had a piece of him in her hands. Something vital. But when he looked across the room, Cas turned his head and looked back at him and Sam could see by the look on his face that Cas was as caught as he was. She had him. Somehow. Not his soul then, Cas didn't have one. Something else.

 

She was saying something...he should pay attention...

 

“No,” Cas was saying. “I don't fight any more.” And for just a second Cas turned his head and looked right at Sam and his face...changed.

 

Those white lines, almost like cords of light now, they were cutting into Sam's arms and he just suddenly felt _so fucking guilty_ he wanted to kill himself. It was like the feeling reached up out of the dark and tried to strangle him. It was bigger than the whole world. He had to put his face down and breathe, focus on the pain. Pain was good.

 

Sam wrenched back, pulling away from the witch, wondering why the hell he hadn't before. The pain spiked excruciatingly as he pulled on whatever she had hooked into him. That was good, that was what he wanted.

 

She was surprised, she was chanting something else...and then she stopped. She was making another sound. It was familiar.

 

Sam opened his eyes, and let out a breathless laugh. He'd lost track of Dean. So had she, apparently. Never a smart thing for a bad guy to do.

 

Dean jerked the knife a little deeper into her back, and she gurgled a little more, not quite dead yet. Then she did something that worried him. She looked right at him, and smirked.

 

Never a good sign. Dean dropped her on the ground like so much trash.

 

Sam didn't notice what was wrong right away, though. He got up to his knees and the pain was gone. He checked out his arms and his hands and he could still see those weird lines but it looked like they were fading back into his skin. He rubbed at his arm with stupid optimistic hope, but the creepy glowy lines did not magically wipe off. Sam glanced over at Cas, and saw that he was doing something with the glass shards. Putting them back together on the ground...maybe he was making a picture or something. Hard to tell. He felt a twinge of pity and hoped Dean wouldn't give him a hard time about it...

 

Which was just about the time he noticed how unusually quiet Dean was being.

 

He looked over at where Dean had been standing. Dean was gone.

 

“Dean?” Sam, said, alarmed. He spun around. Dean wasn't in the kitchen. Sam looked at Cas for a moment, considered asking him, then realized he was carefully constructing a sailboat on the floor out of broken glass. He stepped over him without comment and went into the living room. “Dean!”

 

There was a tap from the front door. Sam spun around. Dean was standing on the other side of the glass panel, looking annoyed.

 

Sam spread his hands. “What the hell?” he said, loud enough so that Dean could probably hear.

 

“Frigging witches, man. I don't know,” Dean said, exaggerating his mouth movements.

 

Sam raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and made a sweeping, violent movement with both hands that clearly indicated Dean should get his ass inside the house already.

 

Dean thrust his face close to the glass and made a rather grotesque face, gesturing with both hands for emphasis. “I can't open the door. The door won't open.”

 

Sam tried the knob first. Dean was right, it was stuck solid. Then Sam grabbed the small table by the door, scattering the Zinnias, and smashed it violently against the glass. It bounced. Sam took a step back and stared at it. Dean was standing on the other side of the door with his arms folded, looking smug. Sam gave him a sour expression.

 

Then he held up a finger. The kitchen windows. He turned and ran back the way he'd come, slipping a little on the water from the plant he'd knocked over.

 

He stopped in the middle of the kitchen. He took several deep breaths, his shoulders going up and down. Despite the scattering of glass on the floor, all the windows were intact. Sam ducked his head and worked his jaw for a minute. Not possible.

 

Just for kicks, he tried the back door, and one of the windows. Both locked, and neither one would break.

 

Sam wiped at his face, and then crouched down to where Cas had made a small, elaborate, shining little boat on the floor, complete with tiny men. The boat was rocking at a bad angle in a storm, and Cas was working on building up some glittering waves around it. The little mosaic caught at Sam's memory, and he froze, the words he'd planned to say momentarily forgotten.

 

“Is that...” He tilted his head at an extreme angle to get a better look. “'The Storm on the Sea of Galilee?'” he asked in disbelief. He looked down at Cas for confirmation.

 

Cas smiled up at him beatifically.

 

“You...” Sam pushed his hair out of his face, suddenly feeling helpless and out of his depth, “you reproduced a Rembrandt in kitchen glass?”

 

Cas looked down, nudging another miniscule sliver into place. “We are all cast adrift on an endless, stormy sea, Sam,” he said quietly.

 

Sam slumped a little.

 

“Okay,” he said, after a moment. He crouched down. Then, after thinking about it, he put a hand on Cas' shoulder.

 

That was a good move. Cas turned to look at him like he'd done something amazing, his eyes opening wide. Focusing. Focusing was good.

 

“So, um, do you know what happened to the windows, Cas? Dean can't get in.” Sam glanced at the dead witch. “And I don't think we can leave.”

 

Cas lifted his head and his eyes went far away like he was listening to something Sam couldn't hear. “Strange,” he said, and it was that habit he had of almost slipping into the way he used to speak. It sort of hurt to hear, honestly. “There is nothing in this house keeping us here.”

 

There was a flutter, and then empty air where Cas had been standing.

 

Something dug into Sam, pulling hard with a white-hot fury and he went down on his knees before he could think. He couldn't see straight but he could feel those bands burning into him.

 

Then, Cas was back. He fell on the ground, scattering glass and possibly destroying a Rembrandt, and Sam could breathe again.

 

Sam had just enough time to flop onto his back, and take a breath in relief, before Cas lifted his head and Sam saw that his face was white with fear and half wild with confusion.

 

And he was gone again. “No-” Sam sputtered, reaching out as if he might be able to stop him, because he'd already figured this out. A second later Sam was writhing on the floor, cursing. Apparently, this was about the two of them. They had to stay close. Which meant the next time Cas popped in, disheveled and hurting and flailing, Sam tackled him.

 

Half-blind, screwy spiderweb bands of pain, it didn't stop him. Sam had a pain threshold that was probably inhuman. He wrapped himself around Cas like a monkey and hoped Cas retained enough marbles in his head to remember not to kill him. Sam might have about two feet of reach on Castiel's vessel, but Cas could still crush his skull in a panic.

 

Sam did not expect Cas to vanish again, and take him along for the ride.

 

His stomach swooped in a way that wasn't entirely unfamiliar, and then he thudded onto a wooden floor. Castiel, still hugged tightly in his arms, went so completely and suddenly limp Sam thought he had passed out.

 

Sam pushed himself up on one elbow, alarmed. He looked around. They were at Rufus' cabin.

 

_Of course._

 

“Castiel?” he said, concerned. Cas' face was turned away, toward the floor.

 

Cas surprised him by reaching up and stroking the arm Sam had wrapped across his chest. “Sam,” he sighed in relief. “We're free.” He sounded like a child.

 

Something in Sam had to quietly sit down and face the wall at his tone of voice. He extricated his arm and rubbed Cas on the back before he could stop himself. He didn't know what else to do.

 

There were times when Sam thought of the things that other people had done for him and sacrificed for him in his life to get him where he was today. Functioning and alive. He tried not to think about it too much because it was a pretty long list at this point, and he knew everyone on it wouldn't appreciate him throwing away their sacrifice. That and the simple fact that hell had a way of putting everything in perspective.

 

He knew that Cas had taken on the pain of his hell memories as a kind of penance. For a lot of things. He wondered, not for the first time, just what it was Cas had seen.

 

Cas hummed to himself, tunelessly, seeming content to remain on the floor for the moment.

 

“Okay,” Sam said, maybe to himself, maybe to Cas. He eyed the door suspiciously.

 

The door wouldn't open. The windows stayed shut, too. He took out his phone and called Dean.

 

“Where are you?” Dean demanded.

 

“Rufus' cabin.”

 

“What?”

 

“Look, Cas kind of freaked.” Sam eyed where Cas was curled up on the floor. He had pulled a plastic bag of...something out of his pocket and was examining it. “I think he feels safe here. But we still have some kind of curse or something on us. We can't leave the cabin.”

 

“Not unless Cas mojos you out,” Dean pointed out.

 

“Yeah, but if we have something weird going on I'd rather deal with it here, away from people, Dean,” Sam replied.

 

“Okay. Fine. But it's a ten hour drive for me. You gonna be okay til I get there?”

 

Sam glanced at Cas. He was holding the stuff in the bag up to the light. It was golden. “We'll be fine. Just hurry up.” Sam put his phone down, leaned against the kitchen sink, and ran his hand over his face.

 

“You're upset,” Cas said. He was sitting up, now. “Why?”

 

Sam sighed and tilted his head. Cas was starting to look nervous. Sam patted the air and hoped for the best. “So, I don't want you to worry, but we're still stuck.”

 

Cas straightened up, eyes darting to one side, and Sam waved his hands. “Don't go anywhere!”

 

Cas looked at him, eyebrows high.

 

Sam continued, slower. “Just...stay, okay? Until we figure this out.”

 

Cas smiled, something that lit his face up slowly and just kept going until he was absolutely beaming at Sam. “Okay,” he said, and got to his feet. He thrust his hand out and for a surreal second Sam thought Cas was going to ask him to pull his finger, but he was offering a handshake. “Deal,” he said, proudly, and gestured slightly with his hand, for Sam to take it.

 

Sam did, feeling a slight sense of deja-vu.

 

Then Cas turned his hand at the wrist, and covered their clasped hands with his other hand. Sam's throat closed up, and his eyes jerked to Castiel's face.

 

Cas was smiling that strange barely-there smile that he wore so often now and it looked more wrong that it ever had. And then Cas winked at him.

 

Sam wrenched his hand away, stepping back, feeling like he'd been slapped.

 

Cas looked at him with surprise. He smiled weakly. “Sam?”

 

“Stop it,” Sam said quietly. “Okay? Just for a little...just stop.”

 

Cas took a step back from him. He looked at the floor for a minute, toying with the belt on his coat. There was an awkward pause.

 

“We could play cards,” Cas said, hopefully. “You like cards.”

 

Sam stared at him for a long moment. Cas stared at his own hands, fiddling with his belt. Okay, he could play it this way. The good brother. Again.

 

“Yeah,” Sam said. He nodded, and forced a smile. “Okay, let's play cards.”

 

In a relatively short amount of time, Sam sat with a beer in hand and stared at Cas over an array of sevens and eights. “Go fish,” he said tightly.

 

Seeming pleased, Cas took a card.

 

“Cas, I need you to tell me about what went on earlier tonight, okay?” Sam said carefully. Opening gambit. The witch had messed with something between them. That was a start.

 

Cas gave him an innocently curious look that just might not have been a lie.

 

Sam took a breath. “You told Dean when you tried to heal me, that you...shifted something from me.” He paused, raised his eyebrows. Cas nodded politely. “But, earlier today, that witch...” Sam fixed Cas with an earnest look. “She grabbed something in me, Cas. She grabbed it, and pulled, and got you.” Sam made a face. “What does that mean?”

 

“Sam,” Cas said patiently, and waited. Sam frowned at him, and Cas nodded pointedly at Sam's cards. Sam let out an exasperated breath, and asked for twos without looking at his hand. Cas handed him a single card. Satisfied, Cas examined his own hand for a moment. Sam was just about to prod him when he spoke.

 

“I told Dean that you couldn't be fixed,” he said quietly, “and you can't.”

 

Sam straightened. Cas met his eyes. His face was very kind.

 

“Your experience in hell will always be there, Sam. It's a part of you. Your pain is a cup I continue to drink from.” Cas leaned forward. “I can promise that witch couldn't have taken it from me. I will have it until your death, I've made sure of it. Nothing can tear it from me.” He tilted his head. “But you shouldn't think too hard about this. It's not safe.”

 

Sam stared at him, and nodded slowly, his eyes wide, processing the new information. He looked down at his hands, frowning. “I think I have to, Cas.”

 

Cas set down his cards abruptly. “I should find Dean,” he said.

 

Sam stopped him, putting his hand over Cas' wrist.

 

“But Cas,” he scolded gently, “It's your turn.”

 

Cas hesitated. Slowly, he picked up his cards. He eyed Sam suspiciously for a moment, then asked for eights. Sam handed over half his hand. Sam asked for sevens, and had to go fish.

 

“I won't ask about whatever you did to fix me,” Sam said then, “But I think I need to know if the witch did anything to mess with it tonight.”

 

Castiel's lips tightened into a flat, thin line.

 

“Threes,” he said curtly, his voice a bit rough.

 

Sam nodded. “So she did,” he said. “What did she do?”

 

Cas started to look hunted. He leaned over the table, as if he was about to impart something of great consequence. Sam leaned in a little.

 

“I need threes, Sam,” Cas said, without changing his expression one iota.

 

Sam blinked at him. He didn't move at all except to drop his cards. Then he reached out and pushed Castiel's cards down, too. He shook his head.

 

“Not until you answer my question,” he said simply. They were about three inches from each other's faces. “What did she do, Cas?”

 

Something pleading started to enter Cas' expression. “Sam,” he said softly. “We have to play.”

 

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Why?” he looked down at the cards in his hands, and his mouth opened slightly, puzzle pieces clicking together in his mind. “You've been going nonstop ever since that witch dropped you on us. The glass, the stuff in your pockets, you're like ADD kid all of a sudden. Usually half the time you're staring off into space. Why? What's different now, Cas? Why do we _have_ to play?”

 

For a split second Cas looked at him, really looked at him, and it was like that moment on the floor with the witch. He could see this surface layer peeling away and the only thing underneath it was guilt so huge it was like death.

 

And then Cas vanished.

 

Sam had a split second to think ' _Oh fuck_ -'

 

And then he was on the floor again, burning and half blind. Cas was back again in a moment, crashing into the table and flailing on the floor like something mortally wounded.

 

Sam got his feet under him and crawled over there, grabbing him by the shoulders.

 

“You can't do that! Cas, you can't-”

 

Cas clutched at his hands, gasping. “I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry.” Sam's heart sank when he realized that he couldn't actually tell if he was sobbing or not.

 

Sam reached up and put a hand on either side of Castiel's face, trying to get Cas to look at him.

 

“We'll play,” he swore. He knew what was going on now. Or he had a pretty good idea. “I promise, Cas, we'll play.” Cas went limp underneath him. Sam recognized the relief this time and stroked his hair back from his face without alarm. “Okay?” he said bracingly.

 

“Cards,” Cas said quietly. “You like cards.”

 

“Not cards,” Sam replied. He looked over his shoulder at the stacks of games on the shelves. “I want to try something else.”

 

It was easy to clean up a mess with an angel around.

 

“Now shut your eyes, and don't peek,” Sam warned, feeling a little bit silly. “I'm picking the game but it's a surprise.”

 

Castiel, however, seemed delighted by this, and folded his hands on the table, lifting his chin and shutting his eyes obediently.

 

“No peeking,” Sam warned.

 

Cas smiled faintly. “I promise.”

 

Sam went to examine the games available. It would need to be something serious. Something he could use to get through to Cas-

 

He stopped. He couldn't believe Castiel had even brought that into the cabin. It must have belonged to Rufus. It was perfect.

 

He set up the pieces quietly. When he was done, he took a deep breath. “Okay, look,” he said.

 

Castiel opened his eyes, and froze.

 

Silently, Sam slid the chessboard around. Angels should play white.

 

Cas looked up at Sam like he'd been betrayed. Well, Sam knew the feeling.

 

“It's just a game,” Sam said gently. “We're just playing.” He reached over and touched Cas' king with the tip of his index finger. “This is you,” he said. “You're white. The good guys, trying to stop the apocalypse.” He said it carefully, testing, watching Castiel's reactions.

 

The witch had done something. To Castiel. Something to do with Sam's messed up hell memories, and how Cas was dealing with them. Or not dealing with them. Cas had to play, or build, or do something to push away the guilt. That was fine. If that kept him from dying, that was fine. But something was screwing with him. Now the real world was getting pushed away. Not just his thoughts, the actual real world. Sam just wasn't sure if it was a spell making Cas do it, or if she'd actually done something to break him just that little bit more. At least that was his working theory at the moment. If he was wrong he had almost ten hours to come up with something better than whatever Dean would have when he got there.

 

Sam touched his black king, honestly curious. “Who am I?” he asked. He had a thought. A rather unpleasant one. “Dean?”

 

Castiel was looking at him like Sam was whispering terrible secrets about his dead mother into his ear. Horrified but not able to tear himself away. After a long, long moment, Cas reached out and touched the black king.

 

“Raphael,” he said, his voice rough. His hand lingered on the piece. Cas suddenly looked confused, as if he didn't understand what was going on, or why he was there.

 

“Okay,” Sam said, his voice encouraging. He reached out and took Cas' hand off the piece, put it back on the other side of the board. “Bad old Raphael. I'll be him. You're white, you go first.”

 

Cas opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at the board like it was going to eat him.

 

“Tell me about chess,” Sam said.

 

“Chatrang,” Cas muttered after a long moment. “The cheating was atrocious.” He picked up his bishop and examined it with a dissatisfied air. “I miss the little elephants.” He looked up at Sam with annoyance. “Who can ride a bishop? It makes no logical sense.”

 

Sam smiled slightly. “Your move, Cas.”

 

Cas moved one of his pawns without stopping for breath. Something about saddles for bishops. Sam leaned back in his seat and smiled.

 

He did really well until they started losing pieces.

 

Sam hadn't really considered that if he was playing Raphael then that meant that every piece on the board was an angel. One of Castiel's brothers. Cas knocked Sam's piece over and then stared at it in horror. He picked it up and held it in his hand and Sam started to think maybe this wouldn't work after all.

 

Sam reached out and touched Castiel's arm. He squeezed it hard.

 

“They're just pieces, Cas. Game pieces. We're just playing it out, okay?”

 

Cas set the piece aside gently, like it was alive. When he looked up at Sam he looked like a hurt thing, but he nodded.

 

Sam asked him again about chess.

 

He learned a lot about chess in the next hour. Also plenty about 6th century Persia. And also, when he couldn't distract Castiel any longer, he learned the names of a lot of Castiel's brothers who had died. Cas kept touching the pieces. He was naming them toward the end, and Sam was afraid he was going to start talking to them soon. Sam had to practically prop Castiel up.

 

“We just have to get through this, you can do this Cas. We're almost done. Just this one game and we're done.”

 

Cas had to realize, at some point, that Sam was losing on purpose. Cas didn't exactly have his mind on the game. He still stared at the black king in check in front of him like it was some terrible surprise.

 

Then he looked down at his hands, and fiddled with his own fingers. This went on for a while.

 

“Cas,” Sam said, leaning across the board, “It's your turn.”

 

Cas said nothing. He looked at his hands.

 

“Cas,” Sam said, more firmly, “You've got me in check. It's your move. You win.”

 

“No,” Cas said.

 

Sam frowned. “What?”

 

“No. I lose. Everyone loses.” He reached over and knocked the white king down. Then, methodically, he went after every other one of his own pieces still on the board.

 

Sam stopped him after he realized what he was doing, grabbed his hand and pushed one of the pieces into it.

 

“Cas, they're just pieces! It just a game! Look!” He lifted Castiel's hand up and basically shoved the thing in his face. “I don't need you to make this real, okay? Listen to me. It just has to be a little bit more real that you've been letting it be. Or we're never going to get out of here.”

 

Sam reached out and grabbed his black king and thunked it in place mockingly. “Big-bad Raphael is a plastic game piece, Cas. But I need you to actually look at him. And I need you to actually knock him over. I need this to be something that happened. Can you do that?”

 

Cas stared at him for a long moment. He looked vaguely frantic.

 

Sam gave him his best reassuring look. “It's okay. It's going to be okay.”

 

Castiel looked back down at the board. He made his move. Sam tipped over his king in defeat. Cas looked stunned. He slowly reached out and picked up Raphael and looked at him. He turned the piece over in his hands, frowning at it. His hands were shaking.

 

Sam put a hand on his arm. “Hang on a second. I want to check something.”

 

Sam walked to the door and opened it. It was a nice day outside. “Holy crap,” he said softly. “Score one for psychology.”

 

Then he turned around, and any good feeling he might have had about it was squashed by the sight of Castiel kind of curled up over the table. He had his head down on his arms and he was hiding his face. But when Sam got closer, he noticed that Cas had scooped up all the chess pieces and pulled them in close to his chest. All of them except the white king, which he'd left out on the table alone.

 

Sam stared at the lone piece for a second, and then picked it up.

 

“So,” he said casually, “if you're going to keep the other pieces, maybe I'll just hang on to this one, you know?”

 

Cas lifted his head, frowning at him.

 

Sam wiggled it for emphasis. “I kind of like him.” He tucked the piece carefully in his shirt pocket.

 

Cas shut his eyes and slumped a little, but it wasn't a sad gesture. If anything, it was relief. It was a heartstoppingly sane-looking thing to see. Like for a moment Cas was himself again.

 

Sam gave up at this and threw and arm around Cas' neck, pulling him into a half-hug against his side.

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are uncommonly kind?” Cas said, his voice muffled by Sam's shirt.

 

Sam considered. “Not really.”

 

“You are.” Castiel said. “It is doubly astonishing considering what you were created to be.”

 

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam said, his voice very dry.

 

Cas left shortly after that, and didn't come back for days and days. Sam had to get in a fight with Dean to stop him from calling. He knew that they shouldn't, but he couldn't explain why, because Dean would think he was insane.

 

He knew they shouldn't call because of the chess pieces. They kept popping up in weird places around the cabin and the yard in little tableaus. He even found some in the car. Funerary art pieces. Dean already thought he was crazy because he wouldn't let Dean touch them or throw them away. He didn't want to think about the look on his brother's face if he tried to explain the truth.

 

'You see, these are not chess pieces, they are actually representations of dead angel relatives, and arranging them in weird poses in our cabin when we aren't looking is helping Cas work through some of his grief.'

 

The look he would get would probably frighten small children.

 

So Dean was in a shitty mood by the time Cas wandered back through the door on his own, trailing bees and setting an entire chunk of honeycomb on the counter like he'd just shot a deer and brought it home to feed the family. Dean worried, even if he didn't like to admit it. Dean had worried about Cas even when Cas was all there. This version of Cas had Dean pacing the floors day and night.

 

This was when they discovered that the curse wasn't exactly broken, and that if you just got Castiel upset enough, it would reassert itself nicely.

 

Sam stared at his brother through the window. “Good job,” Sam mouthed silently, mindful of the agitated and unstable angel twisting his sticky fingers not five feet away from him. There was honey on _everything_.

 

In the yard, Dean spread his arms wide in a 'come at me' gesture. Then he kicked the ground, hard.

 

Sam sighed, and turned to look at Castiel. “Hey,” he said. “I got something I've been saving for you.”

 

Cas gave him a suspicious look.

 

Sam patted the air in a 'wait here' gesture, and went to go get the chessboard. Cas stiffened when he saw it.

 

“I don't want to play,” he said, and looked up at Sam with wide eyes. “Sam, please-”

 

“We're not going to play,” Sam assured him quickly. “I just want to go outside with you for a minute. If I'm getting this curse thing right, it's just proximity. It pushes everything away from you, but not me-I have to be close, because I'm part of the thing she used to make it work. We should be okay outside, as long as we stay together. But you have to get us there.”

 

Castiel eyed the board, then looked at Sam hesitantly.

 

“We're not going to play,” Sam said gently, and smiled. “Trust me, you'll like this.”

 

Cas reached for his arm, and then they were outside.

 

Sam pulled the lid off the shitty little barbeque grill Rufus had left to them and worked on getting a fire in the bottom of it. By the time he had one going Cas had caught on to what was happening and was smiling softly at him. Sam raised his eyebrows, lifted the chessboard with a flourish, and chucked it in the flames.

 

They watched it burn. After a little while, Cas sort of sidled over close to him and leaned his head on Sam's shoulder. He had one of the chess pieces in his hand, but Sam couldn't tell which one it was. He toyed with it as they stood there, running his fingers over and over it.

 

A little while after that, Dean came over. He eyed them both. He may have looked a little sheepish. It was hard to tell with Dean. All three of them watched the fire for a bit.

 

“So,” Dean said, after a while, “you want to grill some hot dogs or something?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> written (in one night!) for sastiel week challenge #3 : an irreversible curse


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